habitually, as changelessly still as if no breath of life ever passed
them. There was not a wrinkle or line anywhere on his face. But for
the baldness in front, and the greyness of the hair at the back and
sides of his head, it would have been impossible from his appearance
to have guessed his age, even within ten years of what it really was.

Such was his countenance in point of form; but in that which is the
outward assertion of our immortality--in expression--it was, as I now
beheld it, an utter void. Never had I before seen any human face which
baffled all inquiry like his. No mask could have been made
expressionless enough to resemble it; and yet it looked like a mask.
It told you nothing of his thoughts, when he spoke: nothing of his
disposition, when he was silent. His cold grey eyes gave you no help
in trying to study him. They never varied from the steady,
straightforward look, which was exactly the same for Margaret as it
was for me; for Mrs. Sherwin as for Mr. Sherwin--exactly the same
whether he spoke or whether he listened; whether he talked of
indifferent, or of important matters. Who was he? What was he? His
name and calling were poor replies to those questions. Was he
naturally cold and unimpressible at heart? or had some fierce passion,
some terrible sorrow, ravaged the life within him, and left it dead
for ever after? Impossible to conjecture! There was the impenetrable
face before you, wholly inexpressive--so inexpressive that it did not
even look vacant--a mystery for your eyes and your mind to dwell
on--hiding something; but whether vice or virtue you could not tell.

He was dressed as unobtrusively as possible, entirely in black; and
was rather above the middle height. His manner was the only part of
him that betrayed anything to the observation of others. Viewed in
connection with his station, his demeanour (unobtrusive though it was)